


First Christmas

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Aftermath [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Post-Canon, PostWar, nextgen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Christmas, 1918. The war is over, and surrounded by her family, Christine has time to reflect.





	First Christmas

It is the first Christmas in five years that she has had her family all here together. Back then they could never have imagined what would happen, the way they would be torn apart, cast away, living ever on the threshold of hell. How many times did she come close to losing them? To losing her son, to losing her nephews? She knows of at least three occasions, but how many more have they not told her of?

She tries not to think of it, and today especially she pushes the thoughts from her mind when they come unbidden. They are here, they are well, and that is all that matters, not what could have been, not what almost was. No _almosts_ have any place here now, only what _is_.

Raoul catches her eye from where he’s talking to Philippe by the fire, and smiles at her, and she knows he is thinking the same thing.

It was supposed to be Sorelli’s turn to host the family this year. She has been awaiting her turn since they agreed not to do anything until the war was over, and that agreement was in 1914. It would be only right if she had finally assumed the role of hostess now, but they discussed the situation only a week ago, and agreed that it would be best, for the sake of Konstin, if Christine were to host again this year. It is more than a month since he recovered his senses, more than a month since he survived influenza and pneumonia both, but his stamina is not what it should be, and he tires easily, and so to make it easier for him to slip away and rest if he gets overwhelmed, it is best to hold things here instead.

He is holding up well, as things go. His appetite is recovering, and he slept better than Christine expected he would last night. The combination of the two has left him in good spirits, and he is smiling as he explains the advantages of a particular key change to Guillaume, who has never had much of an interest in music until now.

Christine suspects there may be a woman involved, but if there is he has not mentioned anything about it to anybody.

She _hopes_ there is a woman involved. It would be nice to have another wedding to look forward to, after Anja’s in the spring. But while Guillaume has always been quiet, has always taken a great deal after Philippe when it comes to his observational nature, there is something about him now, a twitching in his fingers, the way his eyes dart about the room every so often, that makes her think he has not come away as unscathed from the war as he looks.

Konstin and Antoine both have scars to show, but Guillaume? Guillaume carries no wounds, only the restlessness that was never a part of him before.

They have all been affected, in so many different ways.

But it lightens Christine’s heart to see Marguerite laughing tonight. She and Anja are discussing the latest gossip, each after just a little too much wine, (“You should have seen that Lamarque woman last week. She was like a pink toad!” Christine _did_ have the misfortune of being faced with Babette Lamarque when she was at the Garnier to discuss the arrangements for the New Year’s gala, and a toad is the politest description of the woman she has heard, so though she knows she should berate Anja for such things, she can’t help privately laughing at her words), and Christine would swear it is the first time Marguerite has smiled since her leave in the summer of last year, the whole of eighteen months ago, before the whole Event that Christine prefers not to remember but which almost cost her Konstin and which still sometimes wakes her in the night.

She hopes, dear God how she hopes, that Marguerite might truly be starting to recover after what happened with her Capitaine.

Anja, of course, has been in high spirits ever since Konstin started getting his strength back. More specifically, ever since the evening of 20 November, when Valentin De Courcy (after seeking Raoul’s permission first), took her to the opera, and then proposed marriage on the way home.

There was no question of her acceptance of it.

It is the most exciting thing that they have to look forward to.

Anja is as old now as Christine herself was when she married Erik. As she was when she lost Erik. The world has turned so much, has changed so utterly, and to think of her daughter being in the position now, that she was then—

It takes her breath away.

She just thanks God that Val De Courcy is a healthier, younger man than Erik was, because so help her she does not think she could bear it if Anja had to go through what she went through all those years ago.

(Not a day goes by that some part of her does not still miss him. It has sharpened since Konstin was wounded last year, sharpened again since his illness in November, and sometimes she catches a glimpse of him from the side of her eye and thinks it is his father, thinks it is Erik recovering from one of his attacks or a frenzy of composition, but then she blinks and he coalesces back into her son, back into the man her son has become, who still carries himself with a proud bearing though his cane is not merely for appearances and his nights are more often sleepless than not even when his old wounds are not aching.)

She never shared a Christmas with Erik. The thought comes unbidden. There was the Christmas before they were together, before Everything Happened with Raoul and dear old Nadir, when she still half-believed Erik little more than a phantasm. Then by the next Christmas it was all over, and he was gone, and she was left with Konstin living beneath her heart, a baby not-yet-born, the thought of which terrified her as much as she ached to have him in her arms, as much as she loved him and loves him still.

Often, at this time of year, she wonders. Wonders how it might have been to have had a Christmas with Erik, had they had the chance. What gifts would he have given her? Likely something lavishly expensive and altogether too ornate. Fancy dresses and gold-plated hand-mirrors and elegant hair accessories the likes of which high-born ladies wear. Her gift to him would have been simpler, cufflinks, or fine staff paper, or a variety of ink colours, or a pen engraved with words of her love, and it would have paled in comparison to anything he would give her but he would treasure it endlessly. She might have sung for him, and he would have played for her, carols and hymns, and he would insist on being the one to cook dinner, “after all when one has lived alone as long as I…” he would say, and probably he would have a gift for Ayesha too, a new bauble to hang around her neck. Perhaps, if it was the Christmas after their marriage, the Christmas when she was expecting, he would have spoiled her with things for the baby, and of course would have insisted on her not lifting a finger.

If it was Konstin’s first Christmas, if Erik had lived long enough to see that, he would have spoiled Konstin with more things than a baby might ever have wished for.

He might even have deigned to attend Mass with her.

Once, the wonderings of how a Christmas would have been with Erik at her side would have made her weep. Now her eyes merely dampen, too accustomed to all she has cried for him, too worn out from too many years, and she dabs the tears away discreetly.

Not discreetly enough. Émile shoots her a worried look from where he sits talking to Antoine and Sorelli, and she plasters on a smile for him. He will not have guessed the true source of the tears in her eyes, will put it down simply to the strain of the last four years, and he does not need to know. He knows about Erik, or most of it, but how much she still misses him is her secret and hers alone.

But she has Raoul, who is nodding along with whatever Philippe is saying though he arches a brow at her as if to ask if she is alright and she nods back at him and smiles. She has Raoul, and she would not give him up for the world. She has Raoul, and where once she might have traded him to have Erik back, those days are thirty years ago and more, and not even the promise of having Erik would convince her to let him go. She loves them both, but it is in different ways and has always been, and while Erik is the love of her youth, Raoul is the love of the rest of her life, and she would not sacrifice him for anything. He has been better to her (and to Konstin, especially to Konstin) than anyone would have any right to expect him to be, and only if she could keep them both now would she have Erik back. Losing him was like losing part of her heart, but losing Raoul, now, after all they’ve been through, would be like losing part of her soul.

She has loved two men in her life, and she loves two men still, and each have built her family. Erik gave her Konstin, gave her Nadir who was sometimes like an older brother and sometimes like an uncle, gave her Darius who was frequently a mother hen and reminded her more of poor old Mamma Valerius than he would have appreciated being told, and God it’s been so long but she misses he and Nadir so very much still. And Raoul, Raoul gave her Anja and Émile, gave her Philippe who is very definitely like an older brother and who made Sorelli, such a dear friend to her, into a sister in the eyes of the world, and the two of them gave her Guillaume and Antoine and Marguerite (and gave Konstin Antoine too, though they all pretend not to see it, and even now Antoine keeps glancing at Konstin, keeps brushing his arm with a light hand even as Konstin’s gesticulating hand brushes his shoulder, as if they are each assuring themselves that the other is there), and Raoul gave her his sisters too, Antoinette and Maria, and though they are scattered to the winds, in America and England with their families, they are her family too, and their letters are always a pleasure, and their rare visits a blessing.

Erik and Raoul, and Raoul and Erik. They are joined in her mind, the twin halves of her heart.

Christine sips her wine, and silently toasts them, the memory of one, and the presence of the other, and knows that if she were to rewrite her life now, if she were to sit down with pen and ink and paper and write the story of her life beginning to end, she would not change a thing. Yes, there was pain. Yes, there was hardship. Yes, there was grief. Often a great deal of grief. Sometimes, she thinks, it has been fifty-seven years of grief of one kind or another, between losing her mother and then the Professor and then Papa and then Mamma and then Erik, and eventually Nadir and Darius too, but if it had not been for the grief then none of the rest of it would have happened. They might not have come to France, she might not have met Raoul, might not have met Erik, and would not have this family, and whatever about all of the years of grief, but she would not trade this life for the hypothetical fairytale one she imagined as a girl.

Or perhaps she is simply getting philosophical with age.

There is a flicker of something between Konstin and Antoine. A tilt of a head, flutter of an eyelid, a nod, and then Konstin is pushing himself to his feet, and Antoine is rising beside him, a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“I think I will retire for a little while,” Konstin announces, and indeed he does look tired now, leaning heavy on his cane, an edge to his jaw, and he nods to them all, and smiles. “Just for an hour or so.” He winks. “Don’t let the party break up without me.”

He bows his head and brushes his dry lips to her cheek, and then kisses the back of Sorelli’s hand before he excuses himself and hobbles out, in the direction of the stairs. And it is only a beat later when Antoine smooths a hand over his hair and says, “I’ll follow him and make sure he doesn’t fall going up.”

A snort of laughter comes from Konstin in the hall as Antoine excuses himself, and Christine hides her smile in her wine.

It might be frowned upon, what they have between them, but if it makes them happy after all they’ve been through, well then what is it for her to comment on?

Raoul catches her eye again, and grins, and she can’t help thinking, as she surveys her family safe here before her, that it is a very merry Christmas indeed.

 


End file.
